


terra firma

by gracieminabox



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, College, Depression, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 22:53:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14435877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracieminabox/pseuds/gracieminabox
Summary: or: nine times christopher pike fell in love with philip boyce without realizing, and one time he admitted it(a prequel to "and we run")





	terra firma

_I_

_August 12, 1991_

Chris Pike puffed air up onto his forehead, trying to blow a wayward curl back into place, and actively ignored the slick of sweat trailing lazily down his spine under his t-shirt. College move-in day was off to an auspicious start; he was thirsty, hot, grouchy, and _couldn’t find his goddamn dorm._ He rolled his shoulder, trying to push his duffel strap onto it more securely without having to drop the half-full cardboard box in his arms, and kept on walking.

_One forty-nine…one fifty…one fifty-one…one fifty-EIGHT?_

He was dangerously close to saying _fuck it_ , going back to the bus station, and taking a nice, cushy job at the diner in Mojave. College was a nice idea while it lasted. Rounding a corner in a hurry, Chris stopped looking where he was going for just a second, trying to consult this ridiculous, labyrinthine campus map, when –

_WHAM!_

“Oh, god, sorry!”

“Shit!”

Chris nearly went toppling, but for a pair of hands that reached out and grabbed him by the biceps, keeping him upright.

“You okay?”

Chris looked up; the voice that had spoken was friendly, as was the face that belonged to it – kind eyes and a soft smile. Chris peered behind him; the door, slightly ajar, had _153_ emblazoned on it.

“Are you…uh…” Chris paused, trying to read the paper with his room assignment on it upside down in his cardboard box. “Philip?”

The soft smile got bigger. “Phil,” he affirmed. “You must be Christopher.”

Chris let out a huge breath of relief. “Chris,” he answered. “Nice to meet you.”

Phil grinned. “Yeah, you too.” He took the box out of Chris’ arms, kicked the door a bit wider, and let them both inside. Phil had apparently been in here for a while getting things arranged, but he hadn’t visibly claimed one bed or the other. Chris dropped his duffel on one of them indiscriminately; Phil didn’t flinch. “Do you need a hand getting the rest of your stuff up?”

Chris’ cheeks flushed hotly with the familiar shame of poverty. “Ah,” he stammered, wiping the back of his sweaty neck, “this… _is_ all my stuff.” He gestured to the half-full cardboard box and the sagging duffel of clothing and braced himself for the inevitable confusion and/or ridicule and/or pity.

“Okay,” Phil nodded without pause. “Is there anything you need?”

Chris blinked. “Huh?”

Phil leafed through a box of his own. “I brought some spare sheets and pillows,” he said nonchalantly. “The spare blanket’s kinda scratchy so I’ll take that one and you can have the other. I think my mom left some spare razors and toothbrushes in the bathroom, and…what?”

Phil stopped, a little frown creasing between his eyes. Chris looked at him, agape, before breathing out a little laugh. “Nothing,” he said softly. “Just…that’s really nice of you.”

Phil smiled. “My pleasure.”

 

_II_

_December 17, 1991_

“So, Chris,” Phil’s mom said congenially, pouring herself some coffee, “Phil hasn’t told us what you’re majoring in.”

“Still undeclared,” Chris answered. His voice had a heartbeat in it; it was _very_ annoying. “Something in the social sciences; I’m just not sure what yet.”

Phil gently kicked him under the table. Chris looked at him out of the corner of his eye. Phil gave him a covert little wink, a wordless little breath of _you’re doing great._ Chris smiled back; it was tight, but genuine.

“No wonder you and Phil are thick as thieves,” she continued with a smile, sipping her coffee. “Humanities nerds.”

“We’re _everything_ nerds, Mom, thank you,” Phil corrected cheekily.

Charlie, Phil’s elder brother, piped in from his spot leaning against the stove. “What do your parents do?”

Chris’ heart fluttered a little. In his periphery, he saw Phil’s head shoot up in Charlie’s direction. Phil’s mom barely restrained a sigh of _“Charles…”_

Charlie looked around, blinking in confusion. “What?”

“It’s okay,” Phil said _sotto voce_ to Chris, “you don’t have to answer.”

“No, it’s okay,” Chris said. The heartbeat in his throat was back. “My dad was in the military for a while, but now he does construction. My mom’s…not able to work.”

Charlie nodded kindly. “Oh.” He politely asked no further questions, for which Chris was grateful; then Phil’s mom changed the subject to the Christmas dinner menu, for which he was even more grateful.

Phil leaned in to Chris’ side. “You okay?” he asked very quietly.

Chris looked over at him, smiled, and nodded, a little surprised that he was.

 

_III_

_April 29, 1993_

Everything was grey.

Chris lay in bed, awake only in the broadest sense of the term, facing the wall without seeing anything on it. It was drizzly outside, perfect for his mood. He felt pleasantly numb. The comfort of a rut is seductive and anesthetizing, and damn, he was far, _far_ under.

When was the last time he wasn’t? He couldn’t remember.

His homework was starting to pile up, but he couldn’t make himself roll over and do it. There was a little ache in his stomach that he vaguely recognized as a scream of hunger, but he ignored it. He distantly recognized that he felt scummy and in need of a shower, but…he was just too fucking tired.

Who cared, anyway?

“Chris?”

Chris flicked his eyes downward. Phil was looking at him with an expression of such profound concern that it made Chris’ heart seize up a little. “Hey,” he managed to say, unpasting his tongue from the roof of his mouth, tasting foulness.

Phil approached him gently, dropping his backpack, and sat next to Chris on his bed. He extended a hand and touched Chris’ forehead, as if checking him for a fever. His touch was gentle, but it still startled Chris a little.

“Have you been in bed all day?” Phil asked, without a hint of accusation. When Chris nodded, Phil pursed his lips. “Have you eaten?” Chris shook his head, curling into a little bit of a tighter ball. “Chris, please talk to me,” Phil implored.

Chris said nothing for a long moment. Then, he croaked out, “I can’t take it.”

“Can’t take what?” Phil asked.

_“This,”_ Chris said nonspecifically. _“Everything.”_

Phil placed a comforting hand on Chris’ lower back, right where his spine curled.

“It’s fine,” Chris brushed off, pulling the blanket farther over his shoulders. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It _does_ matter, Chris,” Phil corrected gently. _“You_ matter.”

Chris felt a suspicious burning behind his eyes and tried to suffocate it, but he didn’t even have the energy to do that.

“I don’t know where along the line you got the idea that you don’t matter - though I can make a couple of educated guesses - but you _do_ , Chris. You don’t deserve to feel like this.”

“I can’t just _snap out of it,”_ Chris said shortly.

“I agree,” Phil said, not rising to Chris’ bait. “But you’re not irreparably broken, Chris. You’re not some broken china that we’re gonna just throw out. We just need to get you some help.”

Chris’ control on his breathing and tears started to slip. “I’m losing it, Phil,” he confessed tightly, before the dam broke and he started to tremble with wracking, silent, full-body sobs.

Phil curled behind him on the tiny bed, hugging him tight around his shoulders and rocking him a little, whispering soft “shh”s and little words of comfort. Chris felt everything pouring out of him – anger, fear, sadness, regret, tension, pain – and Phil was his only point of stability in a world running blurry with grey watercolors.

When Chris’ sobs finally slowed to a couple of hiccups, Phil spoke again, without releasing him. “Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he said, gentle but authoritative. “I’m gonna make you something to eat. And then, tomorrow morning, we’re gonna blow off calc, and you and I will go down to the student health center.” Phil squeezed him a little bit, his affection tangibly bleeding into Chris’ raw, exhausted body. “We’re gonna get this worked out for you. Because _you matter._ And you deserve to feel better than this.”

 

_IV_

_June 6, 1993_

“So you’re Chris,” Areum Sulu said, setting down a huge plate of food in front of Chris and then sitting in the chair across from him and Phil. “Pretty Boy here talks about you so much that I feel like I already know you.”

Chris laughed, a little embarrassed, and gave Phil a Look. A _what have you been telling them about me?_ Look.

“All good things,” Phil answered Chris’ unasked question. “Promise.”

Areum nodded at the food. “Dig in,” she urged. A clamor came from the general direction of the kitchen; Areum muttered something in a language Chris couldn’t identify, but he knew it was a swear.

“I’m fine!” a disembodied voice called from the kitchen. A tall Asian man with glasses walked out from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “I tripped again over that goddamn pallet of sodas.”

“I asked you to move it half a dozen times last week and you didn’t,” Areum answered bemusedly. “You have voided your right to complain.”

Chris smiled at the comparative normalcy and took a bite of food, his face brightening at the burst of flavor. He looked over to Phil, who smiled and raised his eyebrows, as if to say _I told you so._ Chris had been on Zoloft for a little over a month, and while he was definitely starting to feel more like himself, it was a slow process. His appetite had been the first thing to abandon him when things started to get Bad, and it seemed like it was going to be the last to return. This food, though…this was _excellent._ It was the first food he’d actively wanted in two whole months.

As Areum and her husband – _Hyeon Sulu,_ he’d introduced himself, _husband, father, guilty party –_ continued to bicker pleasantly, Chris took another bite of food – then paused with it halfway up to his mouth. There was a tiny dark head peering out from the kitchen, half-in and half-out. The little half-face blinked, making direct eye contact with Chris.

Hyeon followed Chris’ eyeline, and then, so did Areum and Phil. Hyeon smiled. “It’s okay, Karu, you can come on out.”

The little dark head receded a little bit.

Areum smiled fondly, walked over, and scooped the little boy up off the floor, peppering his face with kisses and making him giggle. She carried him over to the table, plopping him on her lap, where he promptly buried his face in her neck.

“He’s shy,” Hyeon said unnecessarily.

“Hikaru, can you say hi to our friends?” Areum asked her son softly.

The little boy barely, barely looked up, gave a tiny wave to Chris and Phil, and then buried his head back in Areum’s neck. She smiled and shook her head.

Three of the four adults continued talking – Chris mostly just ate and listened – and as they did, little Hikaru let his face be seen more and more, playing with Areum’s fingers, then with Hyeon’s, never speaking or making any noise, just observing. When Chris finished his plate, Hikaru – with no warning whatsoever – climbed out of his mother’s lap, toddled over to Phil, and climbed into his.

Now, if he had done that to Chris, Chris would have panicked. He’d never even been _around_ a child that small, let alone held one; children were a mysterious enigma to him even when he _was_ a child. But Phil, in all his patience and gentleness, just scooped Hikaru up, cuddled him close, and said, “Hello there, friend.”

Chris saw Hikaru smile at him. Something in Chris that he didn’t quite recognize felt warm and bright.

 

_V_

_July 21, 1995_

_“Ladies and gentlemen, we are now going to begin pre-boarding ticketholders for American Airlines flight 472 with non-stop service to JFK.”_

Chris looked at the ticket in his hands and tried to quell the sudden rush of nausea and dread.

“Your phone service is already set up, right?” Phil asked him steadily. “So you can call me when you get in?”

“Yeah, yeah, it is,” Chris said. “We’re probably going to be too wiped to do much unpacking tonight anyway, so I’ll just call you once we get the phone hooked up.” He swallowed hard; reaching out, he squeezed Kirsten’s hand to his left, hard.

Kirsten laughed and stroked the back of Chris’ head. “How did I not know you were such a nervous flyer?” she said, not unkindly.

Chris smiled at her, then shared a look with Phil. They both knew he wasn’t.

_“Now boarding Group A for American flight 472 to JFK.”_

Kirsten smiled at Chris. “We should get in line.”

_No no no don’t wanna go not yet please not yet not ready not ready -_

Kirsten stood, Phil stood, and then, on shaky knees, Chris stood.

Phil gave Kirsten a fond hug and they exchanged cursory promises about taking care of themselves. Then Kirsten backed off, and Chris and Phil looked at one another.

The impulse to start crying was almost overwhelming. “Phil…”

Phil shook his head and opened his arms, pulling Chris into a tight embrace. “It’s not goodbye, Chris. So don’t treat it like goodbye.”

Chris pressed his face into Phil’s shoulder, hugging him tight. “I don’t know how I’m gonna do this without you,” he whispered, as if afraid to say the words out loud.

“You won’t,” Phil said softly. “I might not be in the next room, but I’m still here for you.”

Chris squeezed his eyes shut and nodded.

_“Now boarding Group B for American flight 472 to JFK.”_

“Go with your wife, Chrissy,” Phil said thickly. “You gotta go.”

Chris nodded, then parted from Phil’s arms. They looked at each other for a long moment. “I’ll see you soon,” Chris promised.

Phil smiled and nodded. “Be good to you, Chris.”

Chris closed his eyes, turned, and boarded the flight behind his wife.

 

_VI_

_December 29, 1995_

Chris actively tried to ignore the snowy wonderland, colorful lights, and happy holiday revelers on the Manhattan street below him as he picked up the phone in his lawyer’s office. He looked up at the clock as the phone rang. It was only seven o’clock in San Francisco; Phil might kill him.

“H’lo?” the sleepy voice answered.

“Hey,” Chris said, his voice weather-beaten.

“Chrissy?” Phil asked blearily. Chris heard him shuffling around, the dull _thud_ of a textbook hitting the ground as Phil rolled over. “Hey. What’s going on? Where are you?”

“My lawyer’s,” Chris answered, taking a shaky breath. “We signed the papers. It’s done.”

There was a pause, and in his mind’s eye, Chris could perfectly see Phil, sitting up in bed, hair askew, glasses on, with that sympathetic, calming smile on his face. “How do you feel?”

Chris gave a choked laugh. “Divorced after five months before I’m twenty-two, three thousand miles from everything I know. Feel great, Phil. Feel totally great.” He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to cry. It wasn’t the divorce itself, necessarily; it was embarrassing and painful, but not nearly so much as the recognition that he’d made such a colossal mistake by getting married and moving across the country in the first place. “I’m _tired_ , Phil.”

“You sound exhausted,” Phil affirmed.

“I wanna go _home,”_ Chris said, hating the petulant child tone that escaped him. “But I can’t even _afford_ to go home because every goddamn _dime_ I had just got signed away to my lawyer and I don’t even know where I’m gonna _sleep_ tonight and _fuck,_ Phil, I’m just - ”

“Okay, okay, deep breath,” Phil said gently. “Deep breath, Chris. I have money. I’ll get you home.”

“Phil, Jesus, you don’t have to - ”

“Can you stay where you are for ten minutes or so?”

Chris blinked. “Probably?”

“Okay, stay there. I’ll call you back.” Phil hung up. Chris looked at the phone, confused, then hung up too, staring unseeing outside the window.

It only took Phil seven minutes.

“Do you have enough for cab fare to JFK?”

Chris shook his head, then remembered Phil couldn’t see him. “No, but I have enough on my Metrocard, I think.”

“Okay, good,” Phil said. “United, flight 1701. It leaves at one. Pick up your ticket at the airport. I’ll come get you.”

Chris felt stress rush out of him like a deflating balloon.

Ten hours later, Chris deplaned in San Francisco. Phil was standing and waiting for him at the terminal, wearing the hoodie Chris had left with Phil by accident when he’d moved, his hair flopping over his eyes, that gentle, easy smile on his face. Chris walked up to him, dropped his stuff, and collapsed into his arms.

“I’ve got you,” Phil whispered. “I’ve got you. You’re home.”

 

_VII_

_January 22, 1998_

Chris woke up before dawn with a searing pain in his belly. He rolled over, trying to ignore it and go back to sleep, but it refused to settle. _Fine,_ he thought, _maybe if I go throw up I’ll be better._

So he did. Then he brushed his teeth and climbed back into bed.

Twenty minutes later, the process repeated itself. And fifteen minutes after that. And thirty minutes after that. By the time his seven o’clock alarm was going off in the bedroom, Chris had fallen asleep on the bathroom floor in between heaves, his face pressed awkwardly against the lip of the bathtub.

Through a fog, Chris stumbled back to his bedroom and shut off his alarm. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to go back to bed, but he’d already taken a day off last week for an appointment with his psychiatrist; if he took another day so soon, his advisor might kill him. He fumbled into a sweatshirt and jeans and left his apartment.

He had to pull over four times on the way to class to throw up. When he arrived, his professor took one look at him, said “Nope,” and sent him home. He threw up another three times on the way back.

This pattern continued for hours. Chris lost all track of time; he tried to sleep in those brief moments between trips to the bathroom - from somewhere under a layer of cotton a mile thick in his mind, he remembered something Phil had told him about women in labor sleeping between contractions, which made sense now - and the pain in his belly got worse and worse.

Finally, in the late afternoon, the thought occurred to Chris: _Do I have a fever?_

He found his thermometer, and... _oh, shit, I need a doctor._

How lucky, then, to know an almost-doctor so well.

“Phil Boyce,” Phil answered pleasantly.

“I think I’m dying,” Chris said by way of introduction.

“Jesus, you sound horrible,” Phil said, his tone struck through with concern. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Can’t stop throwing up,” Chris mumbled. “Pain...lot of pain. Fever...really high. Hundred and three. What do I do?”

“You wait for me to come get you,” Phil answered. “I’m on my way.”

Chris didn’t have the energy to protest Phil leaving the hospital in the middle of a workday. “Thank you.”

It was a thirty minute trip, minimum, from the hospital to Chris’ apartment. Phil made it in twenty.

“Okay, Chrissy,” he said gently, helping Chris out of bed, not paying any mind to the sweat-soaked hoodie or the spot of vomit on his jeans. “Okay. Let’s go.”

The trip to the hospital was hazy. Actually, most of the time _at_ the hospital was hazy too; the only thing Chris remembered clearly was Phil stopping another doctor from giving Chris morphine.

_How’d he remember I’m allergic?_

And then he fell asleep.

When he woke up several hours later, in the middle of the night, he was in a different room, a little more comfortable than the ER. He was bleary and sore, but not nearly so queasy, and his headache was gone. He had two IVs in, a blood pressure cuff around one arm, and Phil leaning his forehead against the bed, holding Chris’ hand.

“Hey,” Chris murmured.

Phil raised his head, looking at Chris, and smiled. “Hey, sleepyhead,” he said softly. “How you feeling?”

“Shitty,” Chris said honestly, “but better. What’d I have?”

“Pancreatitis,” Phil answered. “You’re gonna be with us for a couple days, but you’re gonna be fine.”

“Shit, my classes - ”

“I already called Laura,” Phil preempted. “She’s gonna talk to Dr. Lopez for you and get you whatever extensions you need.” He squeezed Chris’ hand. “It’s handled.”

Chris felt the tension _whoosh_ out of him with his breath. “You’re...you’re a hell of a friend, you know that?”

Phil just smiled. “Takes one to know one.”

 

_VIII_

_January 4, 2002_

“Okay, Jim,” Chris murmured lowly, ushering the violently trembling boy into his apartment. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.” Jim just continued to shake, his pupils blown, his face ashen.

Chris sat him down on the sofa, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders, the same blanket Phil had given him when they were in college. He rubbed Jim’s arms vigorously, as if to infuse them with some warmth. Outside, a crack of thunder reverberated, and Jim and Chris both jumped.

“You’re gonna be okay, Jim,” Chris assured him. “Everything’s gonna be okay. I’ll figure out how to make sure of that. Okay?”

Jim gave a tremulous nod. Chris heard Jim’s stomach growl over the sound of the pounding rain.

“I’m gonna go get you something to eat,” Chris said. “I’m not going anywhere. Promise.”

Jim nodded. Chris haphazardly yanked a can of tomato soup off his shelf, searched fruitlessly for a clean bowl, then said _fuck it_ and dumped it into a coffee mug to heat it up. It was imperfect, but it would do.

“Okay, kid,” he said softly. “Sip on this. I’m gonna go see if I can find you some dry clothes.”

Jim sipped gratefully and nodded.

Chris retreated to his bedroom, steepling his fingers in front of his face, trying to control his breathing. His adrenaline was still racing and his pulse still thudded ferociously in his neck. Blankly, he reached for his phone.

“Doctor Boyce,” Phil mumbled sleepily.

“You just got off call, didn’t you? I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Phil said. “What’s going on? Why does your voice have a heartbeat in it?”

“I may have just accidentally adopted a kid.”

There was a pregnant pause. Then: “Come again?”

“That really smart kid I told you about, Jim?” Chris began, feeling his pulse tick upward again. “The kid who comes to the library with his mom? We talk about space and stuff?”

“Right, the one you hadn’t seen for a couple months.”

“Yeah. Well. I saw him today. And...fuck, Phil, it’s bad. His mom died in the attacks.”

Phil swore softly.

“And he’s being raised by his total prick of a stepfather, and I drove him home because the weather’s shit, and...Jesus, Phil, he was drunk off his ass and screaming at Jim and he had a gun and I _couldn’t leave him there!”_

“Deep breath, Chris. Deep breath.”

Chris took in a great gulp of air, shoving his hair out of his eyes. “He’s _eleven years old,_ Phil. And he’s got _nobody._ I couldn’t leave him there. I just couldn’t.”

“You did the right thing,” Phil affirmed gently. “You did the _right thing,_ Chris. Where is he now?”

“I brought him home with me,” Chris answered. “He’s in the living room. I gave him some soup.”

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s a fucking mess.”

“Did this guy hurt him physically?”

“Not tonight,” Chris said tightly, “but only because I wouldn’t let him get near Jim.”

“Okay,” Phil said on a slow breath. “Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do.” Chris felt the tension in his shoulders ebb away - _Phil’s calm, Phil has a plan, Phil knows what to do._ “You’re gonna take a second and pull yourself together. I’ll head your way. I’ll make sure Jim’s as okay as he can be. And then we’ll talk to the police and figure out what to do from here.”

“I don’t want to let him go,” Chris blurted.

“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, okay?” Phil interjected. “Right now, there’s a terrified kid out there who needs you. So go help him. And then we’ll take care of you.” Chris heard the muffled _slam_ of a car door. “I’m in the car now. I’ll see you in a bit.”

Chris found his voice under his panic. “Thanks, Phil.”

“Anytime, Chrissy.”

 

_IX_

_July 24, 2002_

“I can hear you worrying from the living room.”

Chris turned his head. Phil was slouched against the doorjamb, his lean frame silhouetted by the street lights behind him.

Chris smiled stiffly and nodded, turning back, running a hand over the blanket on the daybed. “This was your blanket,” he said quietly. “When we first met.”

Phil smiled and came over to sit next to Chris. “If this thing could talk.”

“I’d cut its tongue out.”

Phil laughed lightly, then looked around the room. “You know, we did a pretty good job in here,” he said. “Granted, it took five of us to transform your office into a bedroom, but I think Jim’ll be happy in here.”

Chris swallowed audibly. “That’s assuming he _gets_ to be happy in here.”

Phil gave a conciliatory nod and stayed silent, letting Chris have his moment.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do,” Chris said. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do if they tell me I can’t have him.” He sniffled sharply. “I love that kid, Phil. I love him _so much_ and he’s been through _hell.”_

“I know,” Phil said gently. “I know.”

“I’m trying to be positive,” Chris continued, “but there’s a real chance that tomorrow morning, that judge is gonna ship Jim off to Iowa, and I might never see him again.”

“Hey,” Phil said. “Let’s not catastrophize this.”

“But it’s _true,”_ Chris protested. “I wanna see this kid grow up, even if I can’t be his actual dad, and if I can’t…” Chris took a deep breath. “What if I can’t?”

Phil wrapped an arm around Chris. “Okay, let’s itemize this,” he said softly. “Number one - yeah, tomorrow they might decide Jim should go to Iowa. But there’s also a good chance they might decide he should stay here, with you. So let’s not give up on that hope.” Chris nodded. “Two - the internet. Telephones. The US Postal Service. They all exist as ways of keeping in touch with Jim, wherever he is.” Chris gave a small smile and nodded. “Three - forever is a long damn time, Christopher. Worst case scenario, tomorrow, Jim goes to Iowa. You think that’s gonna make him forget you?” Phil squeezed Chris’ shoulder. “You saved his life, Chris. And you bonded with him. That doesn’t go away with geography.”

Chris slumped his head onto Phil’s shoulder. “Our bond didn’t go away when I went to New York,” he conceded.

“Exactly,” Phil said. “Jim’s gonna be okay, Chris, no matter how tomorrow turns out. And so are you.”

Chris lifted his head and looked up at Phil. “I believe you,” he said quietly. “When I don’t believe anybody else, I believe you.”

 

_X_

_December 22, 2002_

Chris looked out into the living room, where Phil was asleep on the pull-out couch. He’d shown up on their doorstep that night with a bag over one shoulder; his apartment was being repainted and he couldn’t stand the fumes, so naturally, he crashed with Chris and Jim.

Jim had just gone to bed, but the conversation they’d had in the kitchen was still ringing in Chris’ ears. The question Jim had asked was unsettling in both its novelty and its familiarity - a question that Chris had been asking himself under the surface for months, maybe a year, but hadn’t had the balls to consciously acknowledge.

_“Why aren’t you dating Phil?”_

Chris came around the side of the bed, sat down, and looked at Phil, whose breaths were fluttering the gossamer-like hair that fell over his eyes. He looked...soft. And yet, he was the strongest person Chris knew, the touchstone when things got rough. Chris had been brought up to be tough; it was Phil who taught him how to be gentle, and that the two could not only coexist but thrive in consort. Without that, there’s no way Chris would’ve gotten through college, divorce, grad school. Without that, there’s no way he would have Jim.

Somehow, Chris found himself on his side in bed, facing Phil, his arm propped under his head. He tried to stay quiet, but of course, that didn’t work; Phil’s eyes blinked open, first lazily, then with shock.

“Jesus _fuck,_ Christopher,” he swore softly.

“Sorry,” Chris murmured.

Phil rolled his top half over to face the clock on the end table. “It’s three in the morning; what are you doing?”

Chris pinched a little section of the blanket between his fingers and tried to decide how to begin this conversation. “My son just asked me why you and I aren’t a couple.”

Phil paused. “What did you tell him?”

Chris looked at Phil. Even in the dim lighting, his eyes were crystal blue. Phil said they were gray, but Chris insisted they were blue; increasingly, he saw them every time he closed his eyes, so he knew.

“I didn’t have a good answer for him.”

Phil frowned. “I don’t understand,” he said slowly. “Why didn’t you just tell him you’re not gay?”

Chris let a significant silence linger.

“Christopher? Are you coming out to me at three in the morning?”

“I don’t know,” Chris said, and his voice was _miniscule._ “I don’t know what...what _term_ applies to me. I just know…” He sighed. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t backtrack,” Phil implored. “Don’t try to get out of this. It’s me. We don’t keep shit from each other. Just tell me.”

Chris took a deep breath and made a blind grab for Phil’s fingers. “I don’t know if I’m gay,” he said quietly. “I don’t know that I’m into men, as a general group. But...but I _am_ into _you.”_ He swallowed hard. “You’re...you’re my Greek chorus. My soulmate. My _terra firma._ You make things make sense. You make things real. I trust you, and I love you, and I’m crazy about you…” He paused, realizing everything that just spilled out, dropping his voice an octave. “Sorry. Lost control of my tongue. You talk.”

Phil blinked. “You...you have feelings for me?”

Chris nodded.

“Are you sure?”

Chris nodded again. There was a long, long pause where neither Phil nor Chris said anything; they just stared at one another in the dark, intertwining their fingers.

“Is this real?” Phil finally asked, and his eyes were glossy in the reflection from street lights. “Am I dreaming?”

“It’s real,” Chris whispered.

Phil let out a choked little laugh. “Can you...can you come closer?”

Chris shuffled until he was nose to nose with Phil, breathing in the air he was breathing out.

“I’ve loved you forever,” Phil whispered, right against Chris’ lips.

As he smiled into a kiss, the realization hit Chris.

He’d never called it that, never acknowledged it, never even gone there with it in his mind...but he’d loved Phil forever, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment if you're so inclined - they give me life! :)


End file.
